


We're Gonna Need a Bigger Hive

by lildogie



Series: Better Hives and Lawnrings [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bulges and Nooks, Comfort, First Time, Fluff, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Pale-Red Vacillation, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Purring Trolls, Quadrant Confusion, Quadrant Merging, Quadrant Vacillation, Shoosh-Papping, Size Difference, Size Kink, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lildogie/pseuds/lildogie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gamzee has a major growth spurt while Karkat is away from their shared hive.  Feeling alien in his own body brings up some unpleasant feelings that call for a moirail's ministrations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Gonna Need a Bigger Hive

**Author's Note:**

> This is a post-game fic written during the Gigapause, so I just went with a hypothetical ending that pleased me. For the purposes of this story: The good guys win, everyone who needs a resurrection gets one, and they wind up with both Earth and a New Alternia, of which the post-Scratch trolls are in charge.

You're going to have to start measuring Gamzee every time you leave the hive, because, you swear, it's not just a case of the watched liquid heating appliance never bringing your beverage to the appropriate temperature—the moron really is growing a damn foot every time you step out the door.

 

Sure, he was probably growing an inch here and there while you were around, but so were you.  In the three solar sweeps since you won the game, you've started to fill out pretty well, you think, and if you gained slightly more width than you did height, well, you're okay with that, because with all the overpowered freaks in your circle, it's nice looking like you stand a chance against a stiff breeze.  Especially anywhere near the Heir of Breath.  But that was all very gradual.  No sudden developments.  Easy on the nerves.

 

Then Kanaya called you out for help relocating the Mother Grub.  You left Gamzee with a stern admonition to eat out of the thermal hull, not your disused recuperacoon, which got you such a deeply wounded look that you made an awful joke and bolted.

 

Afterwards, you were too busy to think about much besides comfortable egg-laying habitats, the mechanics of moving a several-ton grub, the ongoing debate over the appropriate difficulty for brooding cavern trials, and aggressively ignoring all the eyebrows your friends waggled at you when you mentioned Gamzee.  It started with Rose and moved on to Sollux, who was a fucking champ, was picked up by Nepeta, who was all but purring, and Equius... to be fair, he didn't raise a single eyebrow, or comment at all.  He just watched the rest of them torture you, and got very, very sweaty before disappearing in search of a towel.

 

The equinox was around the corner when the Mother Grub was finally settled to Kanaya's satisfaction.  The rest of you left her and Rose tending to the Mother Grub, and answered a summons from Feferi, with whom you had the fun of discussing a genetic material collection system for the new Imperial Drones, since you weren't going to be forced to mate on schedule, anymore.  As good as that sounded on paper, in practice, it was enough talk of filial pails and concupiscent partners to have Equius creating his own personal ocean under his chair, and frankly, you were right there with him.  And why.  Did everyone.  Keep.  Staring at you?

 

It's a week past the equinox when you finally make it back to your hive, and you are so done with the entire rest of your race.  And Rose.  All you want on New Alternia is a nice, long feelings jam with your moirail on the pile of cushions Rose has been sending for every special occasion she could discover or invent since the planet was restored.  As long as you don't think about where they came from or what the hell her game is, they're comfortable.

 

No sooner do you drop your gear by the front door than you sense something is wrong.  It's too quiet.  It's too dark.  Gamzee makes noise as long as he's awake, and it isn't close enough to dawn for him to be asleep.  "Gamzee?" you shout.  There's no answer.  Instinctively, you equip your sickle.  Fuck.  Fuck, fuck, fuck.  Everyone on this planet is supposed to be someone you know, but what if...?

 

You hurry toward the stairs.  You pass the nutritionblock, which is in more of a mess than usual.  That worries you, too.  Gamzee is a slob everywhere else, but he's learned to _actually_ bake in the last three sweeps, and he likes to keep his tools and surfaces clean and tidy.  The leisureblock upstairs is a wreck—honk horns everywhere, Gamzee's one wheel device upside-down over the arm of the couch.

 

Oh, God.  You are the worst moirail in paradox space.  Sure, he's seemed stable lately.  Sure, he's been taking care of himself with very little harassment from you, but that was with you _here_ , watching.  Supporting.  Being his _net._

 

You _knew_ he sounded weird when you talked to him on Trollian.  You _knew_ something was off, but you were so damn preoccupied—yes, with the future of the species, but what kind of an excuse was that?  If anything's happened to him—

 

"Karkat?"

 

The sound of his voice fills you with relief so fast and sharp you reach out to steady yourself against the wall.  In the next moment, you're sprinting up the stairs because he used your _name_ , and he only ever calls you by it when he _needs_ you.  Blood roars in your auricular sponge clots.  If something—some _one_ has hurt him, you'll cull them _twice._   You will dismantle them.  You will—

 

"Gamzee, I'm coming!" you call out.  You don't smell blood.  What's happened?  What _is_ it?

 

You swing around the landing and pelt up the next flight.  You trip over the top step and charge down the hallway.

 

The rumpusblock is a mess, littered with clothes and food containers, chairs overturned.  You vault over the furniture, skid across the floor, and hit the door to Gamzee's respiteblock with your shoulder.  It isn't latched, and you fall straight through, land in a heap on the floor.  You scramble to your feet, knuckles white on the handle of your sickle.

 

It's dark inside, and automatically you take a deep breath through your nose, straining for information.  Still no blood, but there is a strong smell of... soap?  Yeah, that's what it is, alright.  Your eyes adjust to the light leaking through the rumpusblock from the stairwell, and you spot the silhouette of a tall pair of horns and head of unruly hair in the cushion pile at the center of the block.

 

"Gamzee," you pant, and reach for the light switch.

 

"Don't!" he says, and his voice sounds strange, wrong.

 

You growl and flick the switch.

 

He hisses, and you get your first look at him with his eyes screwed shut, arm raised to shield them.  He's buried in the pile of Rose's cushions, just his head and one arm protruding.  Something looks weird, but you can't say what.  His hair is damp, a few strands clinging to his cheeks and horns, but he's already painted his face.  It's sloppy, with uneven, smudged edges around his eyes and mouth.  That's a bad sign.  You captchalogue your sickle, take a step closer, and notice a rip in the collar of his shirt—no, make that two.

 

"What's wrong with you?"

 

Gamzee blinks at the light, then, as you approach, sinks into the pile.  By the time you reach it, he's squinting up at you, submerged to his eyes.  Only... what?  Is he kneeling?  Because if he's sitting, his head shouldn't come up to your chest.

 

He doesn't answer, just stares up at you with eyes that are very bright.  You stare back.  His irises are completely purple.  His blood color has been appearing in narrow streaks over the last sweep, but now they're this deep, luminous shade of indigo-amethyst, and for a moment you forget everything but that color.

 

"Gamzee," you say.

 

He nods, keeping his eyes on yours.

 

"Are you hurt anywhere?"

 

He shakes his head, then pauses, eyes narrowing.

 

Yeah, that's it.

 

"No, wait—" Gamzee says, but you're already scattering pillows to the four corners of the room.  Gamzee scoots back, turning his torso away and lifting one knee as if somehow he can cover himself.

 

"Holy shit," you say.  There is twice as much of him as when you left.  At least that's how it looks at first glance.  You drop onto your haunches, which puts his head above yours, and gape at him. 

 

It's clear now why his shirt is ripped—he must have snagged the collar on his horns putting it on.  The second rip runs along the shoulder seam, and if not for the two of them, the collar would probably be strangling him.  The hem barely clears his grub leg scars, leaving most of his stomach exposed—a stomach which looks troublingly concave.  His calves stick out from the cuffs of the clown pants that used to drag along the floor.  There are several splotches of dark purple and blue on his shins.  He's relaxed his posture a bit when you look up, and you see similar bruises all along the arm further from you; a few more on the other.

 

You remember this thing Dave once told you about breathing into a paper bag ten times to calm down.  It makes your eye twitch, but you give yourself a moment, and take a few long breaths—you don't have the patience for ten—and try to let the adrenaline that flooded your system when you saw the bruises fade.  There's no one else around for miles, and your pan has just caught up with the situation and supplied a plausible explanation, but you ask anyway.

 

"So you had a growth spurt, huh?"  It should not be possible for any living being to grow this much this quickly.  Fucking highbloods.  Equius was pretty huge this time, but you hadn't seen him in a sweep.  This was a few _weeks_.

 

Gamzee nods, watching you with an expression halfway between sullen and wary.  It bugs the hell out of you, but you breathe, and force down your annoyance.

 

"Did you trip over something?"  He pauses.  "A few things?" you press.  He looks away, then back, and nods.  Your hemo-pressure cranks up a notch.  "You break anything?"  He looks guiltily towards the door and a smile twitches your lips.  "I mean on yourself.  I don't give a shit about the furniture."

 

There's a matching flicker at the corner of his mouth, but it's gone again as quickly.  He looks down and shakes his head.

 

You sigh.  "Gamzee, are you hurt bad anywhere?  Are you bleeding?"  He shakes his head to both.  "But you don't wanna talk to me?"  He looks up, those startlingly vivid eyes wide, then he bites his lip.  "Hey, stop that!"  You reach towards his mouth.  He flinches, but releases his lip.  You jerk back, yourself, your forehead furrowed into probably a thousand lines.  Jesus.  Like you'd hurt him or something.  What the actual fuck.  You make an effort to keep your voice even.  "Your throat isn't hurt, is it?"  He spoke earlier... did he sound unusually hoarse...?  Gamzee shakes his head.  "All right," you say, and rise to your feet.  "You don't wanna talk, you don't have to."  You turn around.  You couldn't stand to see him look at you that way again.  "Gonna get something for those bruises."

 

A tug on the hem of your shirt stops you.  You turn back, but he doesn't let go, the fabric twisting around your waist.  The desperate look in his eyes lances straight through your bloodpusher.  He shakes his head 'no.'  Don't go.

 

You catch your breath.  Yeah, grubfucker, you made that mistake once, remember?

 

Gamzee takes a short breath when your hands cover his.  You clasp it to your chest.  "I'm sorry," you say.  "I'm not going anywhere."  He swallows and his hand flexes in your grasp.  Still holding it tightly, you sink to your knees beside him.  "Gamzee," you say softly, "please tell me what's wrong."  He closes his eyes and his jaw tightens.  Your heart hammers in your chest.  "Please," you say.  "Why don't you wanna speak?"

 

He closes his eyes and presses his lips together, but seems to remember your admonition not to bite them.  He exhales slowly.  "'Cause," he murmurs at last, "my voice is all harsh-like."  He frowns and clears his throat, which gives you a moment to adjust; his voice has dropped so low you imagine for a second you can feel it resonate in your organ cage.  When he called to you downstairs, you couldn't hear him well enough, and when he told you not to turn on the lights, it must have been more of a stage whisper.  Now that he's letting his vocal chords in on the action, even speaking this quietly, it's clear as a bell.  An extremely large bell.

 

You give his hand a squeeze.  "It's just because you grew," you say soothingly.  "Your voice dropped when you were younger, too, right?  It sounds strange to you now, but—"

 

"No, best friend," he says, in this new, alien voice that sounds like the steel hull of a ship striking a reef, "that ain't..."  He opens his eyes to look at his hand clasped in yours.  "Got me feelin' funny.  Body gettin' all down by its own, legs tryin' to dance to some jam I couldn't hear, all tryin' to walk someplace I wasn't going.  Elbows jumpin' into walls, hands gettin' to smash things I had no beefgrub with, you feel me?"  He pauses.  "Feeling all outta control, like my body didn't want none of what I was telling at it to do.  Crew fixin' to mutiny on the SS Makara.  Told myself it wasn't nothin' but a body growin', gettin' some piece outta step with the music was all...  Thought I'd kick back with some strict beats and just get my chill on, you know?  And a couple a fresh rhymes set my thinkpan buzzin', so I went to lay 'em down..."  He looks up to meet your eyes.  "Sounded like some other motherfucker singin' outta my squawk box," he says.  "All kindsa unfortunate, brother."

 

You're dizzy with pity.  His need is so strong you feel like it's bleeding you; you'd do anything to answer it.  He narrows his eyes when you reach for him, like he's worried it's going to hurt, but when your hands settle on his shoulders, the tension drains from his frame.  He lets you draw him close and half collapses against you.  You lean into the pillow pile, holding him tightly to your chest, pressing your face into his neck.  You stroke his back.  "Go on."

 

He leans his cheek against your head, but leaves his arms slack at his sides.  His breath stirs your hair.  "Just got myself to thinking...  What if I was losin' my motherfucking grip on the rudder?  Maybe my legs wouldn't listen to me 'cause they were fixin' to listen to some other mother fucker.  What if someone else was all spinning the wheel like some wicked—"

 

"Shoosh!" you whisper.  Too loudly and sharply.  You catch your breath and say it again, softer.  You squeeze your eyes shut and hold him as tightly as you can, as if you were adrift, and the current might snatch him from you.  "It's all right, Gamzee.  It's not...  No one's gonna do that to you again.  I won't let them."

 

He takes a few breaths.  "How would you know?" he whispers.  "How do you know it's me now, best friend?  How can you tell?"

 

You want to say, of course you can tell.  You're his moirail.  His soul mate.  No one in the multiverse knows him better.  Of course you could fucking tell if there was someone else wearing his face, talking through him.

 

Except that you couldn't, before.  When Gamzee needed you most, when he was being dragged around the timeline, trapped inside himself, when he was right the fuck in front of you, begging for help, you couldn't hear him.  Past Karkat had his head so far up his own insecure, self-centered, self-loathing waste chute, he couldn't tell that his moirail wasn't himself for half a fucking sweep.

 

You want to say it's different, now.  You want to say you know better.  You _think_ you do.  This was the first time in three sweeps you left his side.  It's different than bullshitting over Trollian.  You've built and shared a hive, worked, cleaned, eaten, and played together, had more feelings jams than you can count.  You _do_ know him well enough now to know if someone was mind-controlling him.  Don't you?

 

But what if...?

 

No.  You won't fail him again.  You can't.  Your hands fist in the back of his torn shirt.  That's all there is to say on the matter.

 

"Because," you say, "you've got soap behind your ears."  He shifts slightly, and you tug at his damp hair.  "And I know for a fact that if I go in the ablutionblock right now, I'll find a handful of this plugging the drain in the trap.  If you ever manage to finish the day still in your pile instead of sprawled on the floor, I'll know you're an imposter.  If your taste in music ever does less than make my sponge clots dissolve into toxic slime, same thing.  And most importantly, if the soufflé you make me for breakfast tomorrow evening isn't the best shit ever to grace my tastefronds, I will go out and cull every psychic on this godforsaken rock."

 

He gives a short, huffed laugh.  It loosens something in your chest, makes it easier to breathe.  "Don't gotta be killin' nobody," he murmurs.

 

" _Oh_ yes, I do.  That's my _job_ , asshole."  You bump his head lightly with yours.  "If any boil-covered, maggot-guzzling, nook-plugging waste of oxygen comes within a thousand miles of your woefully inadequate thinkpan, I will extract their skeleton through their waste chute and eat their fucking face.  Are we clear?"

 

His shaking alarms you, at first, before you hear a deep chuckle.  The rumble in his chest vibrates through yours.  "Motherfucking crystal," he says.  He presses the side of his face hard against you.  " _Missed_ you, brother."

 

"Missed you, too," you growl.  "Where the hell is my hug, you horn-fondling nubsucker?"

 

His hands twitch but remain at his sides.  "Not too trustful of these motherfuckers right now."

 

You growl again and seize his hands, pull them behind you, and place them firmly on your back.  "Well, I am.  I'm not a nutrition plateau, Gamzee.  I won't shatter if you bump into me."

 

He holds his hands obediently where you placed them as you slide your own arms back around him.  Gingerly, he puts pressure on you.  You wonder what exactly you're dealing with, here.  Is it more than just the clumsiness that comes with suddenly longer limbs?  Has he actually had some ridiculous boost in strength?  But there's no sudden, Zahhak-like loss of control.  Once he finally crosses his arms behind your back, it just feels like his usual hug, even if his arms cover more of you than before.  You hum your approval and shift closer, hug him tighter.  He exhales gustily.

 

"See?" you say.

 

"Mm-hm," he answers.

 

You shimmy your legs out from under you and throw them over Gamzee's, hook his knees and pull them up under your ass.  Gamzee shifts his shoulders back and forth, making a dent in the pile to situate himself better.  He slides one hand down to your waist and pulls you up against his hip, then resettles, one arm draped over you, one curled under you.  You nestle contentedly between them. 

 

For a moment, you feel like a pupa cuddling with its lusus; he almost envelops you, he's so big.  But, maybe because of that, it's a comforting sensation.  He feels bonier—you're going to have to restock the thermal hull and really badger him about eating for a while, but the reprimands can wait.

 

Gamzee's never been soft, but he's flexible, and good at molding himself around you.  His skin warms against yours.  You love that—it feels like your mutant heat is seeping into him, like a physical manifestation of your influence on your moirail.  You settle your chin on his shoulder and breathe deep.  He smells good, of soap, and the greasepaint you're still not crazy about but is almost inseparable from him, and of the rich, dark scent of his skin.

 

Speaking of soap...  You run your finger behind Gamzee's ear.  He jumps and makes a sound that's almost a squeak.  You snort and hook your other arm around his neck.  "Hold still.  I'm just wiping off the soap."

 

"Shit tickles," Gamzee protests, squirming but failing to dislodge you, which only encourages you.  He giggles, which is weird in his deeper voice, but a relief, burying his face in his shoulder as you flick the soap from behind his other ear.  When it's gone, you're not quite done tormenting him, so you trail the tips of your claws down the side of his neck.  He chirrups in surprise, then dissolves into helpless giggles.  "Stop, best friend," he gasps, trying to twist his torso away from your fingers, but with you in his lap, it's a vain effort. 

 

You reach for his hip with your other hand to trap him, and your fingers graze cool skin.  His abdomen dips under your palm, and you decide he needs to be punished for how lean he's let it become.  He chirps again and tries to roll away, but you lock your legs around his folded thighs to keep him prisoner.

 

In this position, you can feel his laughter all through you.  You want more; more of the unguarded, involuntary noises that sound so intimate, so custom-made for you; more of his body trembling and submitting to you, like a physical acknowledgement of his trust in your judgment.  His left arm is still pinned under your side.  His right hand rises to spread across your chest, palm over your heart.  You expect him to push you away, but he just rests it there, panting through his laughter.  "I give, brother," he wheezes.  "Mercy."

 

He opens gem-bright eyes to beseech you and your heart contracts.  You still your hands, replacing claws with palms to soothe the skin.  "Alright," you say.  "Truce."

 

His arm folds between you as you lean forward, and his eyes close a second before yours.  His lips beneath the paint are chapped, but yielding.  He makes a soft, "Mm," as your lips press together.  You cup his face and tilt your head for a better angle.  His trapped hand tightens at your hip.  You sigh as his lips warm and moisten. 

 

Small, contented noises continue to escape him.  Gamzee really likes to kiss.  He never initiates it, but he'll sort of present his mouth to you when you cuddle—pout, or run a finger over his lips to draw attention to them, or just press his mouth to your cheek or throat as he holds you, a silent suggestion, that plush skin against yours.

 

He won't try to take it further, either, but when you flick your tongue against his lips, they part for you, and you feel a little huff of breath against your face as you slip inside.  His long tongue curls around yours, stroking, then retreating, and you shift closer, slide your fingers into his damp hair.  Your tongues twine and part.  Gamzee curves a hand around the back of your neck and you hum encouragingly, coax his tongue into your mouth.

 

For all that he won't initiate, Gamzee is an excellent kisser.  You found out almost by accident, just fooling around, the first time, to see what he would do, and it turned out he had a talent for it.  You hear yourself moan softly as he licks into your mouth.  Your cheeks flush, but you can't bring yourself to stop, because the careful way he explores you is so tender you can hardly stand it.  He pulls his other hand from under you and strokes your cheek, uses both hands to gently tilt your head as he continues, caressing your lips and tongue with his, turning you into a melty puddle in his lap.

 

So maybe they never showed moirails kissing with tongue in romcoms.  You figure that was an easy narrative device to keep quadrant borders sharply delineated, to make sure they passed the ratings squad without a hassle.  Palemates exchanging nothing but the chastest of close-mouthed kisses was the Six Sweeps and Above version of moirallegiance, not the adult reality.  You assume.

 

You let your hand drift down Gamzee's back and stroke the exposed skin.  Your fingertips trail up and down his spine.  He arches under your touch, kisses you more deeply.  You shift your seat slightly, then chirrup involuntarily as his hand curls around your right horn.  A rumble begins in your throat.  It feels so good, _you_ feel so good, just wrapped up in Gamzee, so close, so warm.  You run your thumb along one of his grub leg scars and a deeper purr joins yours.  You open your eyes.  Gamzee's are closed, his brow just slightly furrowed, making him look terribly earnest, like he's concentrating on you with everything he's got.  Suddenly, you're much warmer.  You feel a sharp pang between your legs, and then your sheath retracting and your bulge beginning to emerge.

 

You half-twist, half-fall out of Gamzee's lap and slide down the pile onto the floor.  You scramble to your knees, bent forward to disguise your condition.  "Oh my god, Gamzee, I—"

 

He's wide-eyed opposite you, knees pulled up to his chest.  "I'm sorry," he says, in unison with you.

 

"I'm _so_ sorry, Gamzee, I—"

 

"—Didn't all mean to—"

 

"—Wasn't thinking—"

 

"Ain't tryin' to—"

 

You snap your jaw shut and look at him.  "What?"

 

"I'm real sorry," Gamzee says miserably.  His arms clench around his knees.  "Swear I didn't mean to be line crossin'.  I'd never get to mussin' your plumage like that, brother."

 

You can't see, but judging from his posture, and the way his ears are rapidly darkening from lavender towards indigo, you're pretty sure he's in the same predicament as you.  You bite your tongue as your bulge, with no respect for quadrant niceties, responds to that realization by fully unsheathing and slithering down your pants leg.  You flush scarlet and hunch over further.  "No problem," you squeak.  You clear your throat and try not to sound like a wiggler this time.  "Not your fault."

 

He drops his forehead onto his knees.  "I'm pale for you, best friend."

 

You tear your mind from the slick progress of your bulge along your inseam.  "What?" you ask again, on top of things as always.

 

"I am."  Gamzee's voice cracks.  "I am."

 

"Me, too," you say automatically.  "I'm pale as fuck for you, don't—"

 

"Sorry," Gamzee says again.

 

Nngh, fuck, what is your bulge even _doing?_   Besides hoarding all the blood your thinkpan needs to form coherent thought.  "No," you say, in your most reassuring, stable moirail voice, while you try to figure out what's happening.  "Noooo," you say again, like he's just told you he managed to balance on his one wheel device for a full five minutes.  Crisis management, Vantas.  You can do this.  You unsheathed during a pale make-out session, and that makes you a jerk, so you apologize, and—

 

"I ain't flipping," Gamzee says, still talking into his knees.  "Ain't trying to ruin what we got."

 

"Oh, Gamzee, no," you say.  You start to get up to go to him, but catch sight of the obscene disturbance along the front of your jeans, and hunch back over your lap.  You flush so hot you could probably burn your fingers on your face, but you can't let him think he's alone.  "Gamzee, I'm out, too.  Okay?  It's not just you.  That—"

 

He looks up at you with big eyes, and from the look in them, that wasn't comforting.  He shakes his head.  "Nuh-uh," he says.  "No, I don't want you bein' like to flip, either, brother, please—"

 

"It wasn't on purpose," you say.  His distress is contagious.  "I mean, that kinda thing can happen.  It's just—"

 

He rakes a hand through his hair and shakes his head again.  "If we get to flippin' flushed, you'll go find some other palebrother," he says.  "You'll go live in his hive, and I'll be here all boxin' treacherous shadows and losin' my grip.  I can't do flushed, best friend.  I don't wanna be missin' you till mating season.  I need you with me."

 

You shuffle over on your knees and flop down next to him.  He doesn't flinch when you pat his back, so you lean closer and slip an arm around his shoulders.  "You're my moirail, Gamzee," you say.  "I wouldn't have anybody else."

 

"Sure?" he asks.

 

"Our particular brands of idiocy and incompetence were fucking fated for each other.  There is no other pan-fried mess who could actually benefit from the festival of inadequacy that is my moirallegiance."

 

He frowns at you sidelong.  "That ain't even near to accuracy, brother."

 

You give him a squeeze.  "You complete me, jackass.  No matter what else happens, you're stuck with me for good."

 

He smiles hesitantly.  "What if I fuck on up?"

 

"When do you not?"

 

He nods like you've said something profound.  He really is the one for you.  No one else would be pacified by your emotionally crippled garbage.  You can still quote every romcom filmed within ten sweeps of your hatching, but even in your limited acquaintance, you're the second most quadrant-impaired troll you know.  Well... maybe third.  But while the movie of your story would flop hard, while neither of you is the palemate a romantic pupa would have fantasized about, the way Gamzee makes you feel is everything you ever read about or replayed onscreen. 

 

It's been pointed out to you more than once that you have a bit of a problem with pacification—a dangerous tendency towards pale promiscuity—but Gamzee is the only one you can imagine harassing, subduing, and goatherding on a daily basis.  If sometimes—like now—you find him more attractive than would have met imperial approval, that's between you and your traitorous bulge.  It doesn't change the way you feel.

 

You glance down at his bare stomach and frown.  "You need some proper clothes."

 

"None a my clothes up and fit."

 

"Why didn't you alchemize some new ones and use the enlarger?"

 

He blinks.  "Didn't get to thinkin' on that."

 

"That's because you're an idiot, and you should've asked me."

 

"Didn't wanna worry you none, make for you to drop the Mother Grub or nothin'."

 

You snort.  "It's not like we were carrying her on our shoulders."

 

"How'd you get her to movin'?"

 

"Hang on."  You shuffle through your Sylladex and find a snuggleplane you must have captchalogued on the meteor.  It seems clean enough, so you toss it around Gamzee's shoulders.  "Come back and sit on the pile."  You let him clamber up first, then settle in next to him.  You'd rather be back in his lap, but best to wait on that.

 

Gamzee wiggles an arm out from between you and lifts the snuggleplane.  "You want in on this?"

 

"Thanks."  You help pull it around you, and smile briefly when he leaves his arm around your shoulders.  You tell him about the system of pulleys and slings you all rigged up, about the crazy, mostly useless series of machines you alchemized before you stumbled on something that could float the Mother Grub safely above the ground, and was controlled and quiet enough that Kanaya approved it.  You focus on the technical details, and don't mention most of your friends by name.  It was good to see them in person, but Gamzee wasn't the only no-show, and each absence was awkward or painful for a different reason.  Three sweeps wasn't enough time for people who had literally killed each other to feel comfortable sitting around the same table.  Maybe in ten.

 

Some of your friends make more sense to you as lines of colored text on a monitor, though.  You bet Sollux would be okay with that.  He'd probably agree.  Relocating the Mother Grub with them felt like a game—not the harrowing experience of Sgrub; just a run of the mill co-op adventure.  You hashed out some logistical challenges, cobbled some equipment, yelled at each other from around a several-ton grub to coordinate your efforts, and achieved your goal.  Followed by a chat with the Empress, which fit the motif, about pails, which didn't.  But forget that.  The point was, despite your time together in the Veil and on the meteor, hanging out with most of your friends in the flesh felt a little unnatural, a little surreal.  Huddling with Gamzee under a snuggleplane felt like a return to reality.

 

"You should see the floating fortress Feferi's built," you say.  "Her hive's underwater, but she said she wanted to be accessible to land dwellers as well.  I guess she's feeling optimistic about us repopulating the species."

 

Gamzee squirms and looks away.  "That, uh...  That the next step already?"

 

"Kanaya said the Mother Grub'll be ready to receive..."  Cursing is your way of life, but you can't bring yourself to say "slurry" just now.  "By the next equinox," you finish lamely.  "So, yeah, basically."  Gamzee makes a long, low sound in his throat.  "Hey."  You stroke his arm.  "It's not mandatory, anymore.  Feferi wouldn't go in for that."  You blush thinking about it, but manage to speak evenly.  "We decided you'd just request the drones to come if you had something for them to collect."

 

Gamzee laughs, eyes wide.  " _Call_ the drones?"

 

"I know, right?  Gonna take some time to get used to the idea."

 

"Can't get my thinkpan outside a that one," Gamzee says.  He looks at you sideways.  "Can you?"

 

You shrug.  "Better than having them bust down your door demanding filled buckets or your head."

 

"Naw, I mean..."  Gamzee shifts again and frowns.  "Who would—  Would you even be all—  Uh..."  The tips of his ears are lavender again.

 

"God, I don't know," you say.  "It's so fucked up with everyone right now."  Even if someone got started now, there wouldn't be wigglers for ten, twenty sweeps at least.  Gathering enough genetic material for a brood from just twelve trolls would be challenge enough on a strict schedule.  Without mandatory mating, who knew?  Which meant the only eligible mates were your eleven team members.  Even the ones with whom you were currently on speaking terms were awkward to deal with.  Actually filling a concupiscent quadrant with them?  Ugh.  "You're right.  I can't see it."  You sigh.

 

"Sorry," Gamzee mutters.

 

"It's not the quadrant that bothers me," you say.  "I'm too burnt out after Sgrub to think I'm up to a kismesissitude for the foreseeable future...  Not sure I could take the stress of a matespritship, either, honestly."  He hums sympathetically and squeezes your shoulder.  You snuggle closer and huff out a breath.  "It's just that I don't wanna be the last candy-red mutant.  If there's really gonna be a New Alternian troll civilization, I'd want there to be so many bright red-blooded fuckers walking around, they couldn't call it a mutation, anymore.  They'd just have to figure out some really insulting new caste name."

 

Gamzee whistles.  "If that ain't the most high-minded dirty talk ever spat at a motherfucker, the king's like to be havin' his claws three inches thick in that throne."

 

"Uh."  You flush.  "I guess it is kinda dirty."

 

"But I... can get my thinkpan all over that picture, brother.  A whole army of fierce little red trolls what slap highbloods all down when they gettin' too rowdy.  Some of 'em up and wearing your face and shoutin' down any motherfucker what gets at botherin' 'em.  It's beautiful, best friend."

 

Your heart thumps oddly in your organ cage.  Another thought crosses your pan, and your bulge, which had finally retracted, pokes its tip out again.  "Dammit, Gamzee," you sigh.

 

"Wh-what?" he asks.

 

"Can you not...  Can you not be so romantic when I'm trying my hardest not to make out with you?"

 

He looks bewildered.  "Wasn't tryin' to be...  Just tellin' at the truth, is all."

 

You give him a lopsided grin that's half grimace.  "I know.  But you're..."  You huff.  "Honestly, this would be so much easier if we were human."

 

He frowns at you, lost.  "How you figure, brother?"

 

"For them, redrom is just one big quadrant.  Your moirail and your matesprit are the same person."

 

"No shit," he says wonderingly.  "Blackrom, too?"

 

You shake your head.  "They just don't pail the people they hate.  Not usually, anyway.  Don't have a name for doing it like we do.  And I guess they just let enemies kill each other."

 

"Huh."  He looks at the ceiling, mulling it over.  He still has his arm around you; your sides touch from shoulder to knee, but you're studiously keeping your hips angled away, and from Gamzee's posture, you think he's doing the same.  Your cheeks get hotter.  Gamzee's voice yanks your attention back.  "Whaddyou think on that?"

 

You blink.  Your pump biscuit does a little backflip.  "Wha—about what?" you hedge.

 

"How's that... one mixed up quadrant... sizzle when it hits your pan?"  The tips of his ears are deep purple, and your fingers twitch with the urge to touch them.

 

"I, uh..."

 

His lashes lower, and his eyes glitter through them in a way that is just astronomically unfair.  "You think that's a thing one troll could handle?" he asks.  "Pacifying a crazy motherfucker _and_ being his matesprit ain't just a tall order—it'd be fit to knock holes in the ceiling with its horns."

 

You swallow.  "Are you challenging me, you mixed-metaphor-using, grub-munching clown?"

 

He looks you straight in the eye.  "Maybe that's what I'm up and doing, brother."

 

You stare back.  Gamzee needs you as his moirail.  That's never going to change.  The thought of someone else taking up that responsibility makes you want to murder something.  But at the same time, you... would kinda like to live to see purple-blooded pupae building their hives on your new planet.  Maybe getting papped into submission by your descendents.  Maybe being stable and serene enough to do their own shooshing.  On Alternia, it wouldn't have been your place to help that happen, but this is _New_ Alternia.  The residents of your hive are one sixth of its troll population; who the fuck is going to tell you not to merge your quadrants, if you really can manage all the attendant responsibilities?  If anyone knows what all of those are, if there's a surviving expert on Alternian quadrants, it is one Karkat Motherfucking Vantas.  And if anyone is qualified to determine when Karkat Vantas is imperially screwing the barkbeast—it's also you.  You have all the degrees and certificates in that field.  All of them.

 

You rest your forehead against his.  "I'd always be your moirail first," you say.  "That's always gonna be my priority, okay?"

 

He nods.

 

"But, yeah.  If _you_ feel safe—if _you're_ okay with it, I could handle two quadrants with you."

 

His flushed ears twitch.  His mouth flickers into a hesitant smile.  "If you go and say it's possible, best friend, I trust you."

 

You smile back.  "So can we get back to making out, or what?"

 

"Motherfuck yeah, we can."

 

He yelps in surprise when you straddle his lap and twine your arms around his neck.  You nuzzle against his throat and immediately begin to purr.  "I didn't wanna get down from here in the first place," you say, and he twitches as your breath tickles him.

 

"I guess not, huh?"  He puts one arm around your waist, strokes your hair with his other hand.  "Wasn't all blissful breakin' up that session, myself."  He lets out a breathy sigh as you kiss under his jaw.  "Like to be gettin' kinda flushed... kinda quick... if you keep that up, best friend."

 

You press your cheek to his.  "If you get uncomfortable, just say.  Okay?"

 

"Uh... okay."  His hands feel tense on you, so you retreat to familiar territory, lean back and brush your lips over his.  He looks up at you hesitantly, then smiles and closes his eyes, tugs very lightly at your head.  You lean in for another kiss.  He hums softly, and when your tongues meet, he begins to purr—a soft, low thrum.  You love that sound, love that signal of his contentment.

 

You stroke his hair back from his face, smoothing the drying curls, weaving your fingers between them.  You brush the base of one horn, then run your finger up along it.  He twitches against you, makes a deeper hum against your lips.  You take that as encouragement, and begin tracing up and down the bottom half of that horn, first with one finger, then with your whole hand curled around it.  Gamzee groans and squirms under you.  You feel something wriggle against the seat of your jeans.

 

Gamzee pulls back with a gasp.  "S-sorry, brother.  I—"

 

"Shoosh," you say, pressing a finger over his lips.  "It's alright if you get a little flushed."

 

He makes an uncertain noise, even as you feel his bulge work its way further out, curving along your ass.  You take a sharp breath as your own bulge fully emerges, and curve your back to keep from pressing it against Gamzee.  "I mean," you add, "as long as you're okay with it.  N-no faster than you wanna go."

 

His eyes flicker downward, then back up to meet yours.  "You out?"

 

"Yes, Mr. Ambassador," you deadpan, "my bulge has fully unsheathed."

 

Gamzee laughs.  "Ambassador?  What all's—"

 

You seal his mouth with yours.  He tugs you closer, and you give up on holding yourself aloof, let your torso drape over his, trapping your bulge between you.  He murmurs appreciatively into your mouth, a murmur which becomes a moan as you resume stroking his horn.

 

His eyes remain closed when your lips part.  You kiss his ear and he squirms, making a noise of protest that's half-hearted enough you don't feel bad ignoring it.  The tip of his ear turns a darker purple, and you can't resist a nibble.  He jerks under you with a soft curse, and his hands on your back flex.

 

"You can retaliate," you say into his ear, and you feel his bulge slide along your ass in response, sending a jolt through yours, "if you want to."

 

"What, uh..."  His thumb draws a circle on your hip, and just that little gesture thrills you.  You nuzzle the side of his face, humming encouragement.  "What all you...  Where should I...?"

 

You dart your tongue out along the upper curve of his ear and he catches his breath sharply.  "Anywhere you want," you say.  He makes an uncertain noise in his throat, and you kiss his cheek.  "You don't have to do anything if you don't want to."

 

"I wanna," he says firmly.  "I'm just... sorta..."

 

"Why don't you just start like you usually do?  You're good at it, you know."

 

"I am?"

 

You pull back to meet his eyes.  He looks genuinely surprised.  You nod.  "Mm-hm."

 

He rubs another circle at your hip.  You're a little softer there than you'd like, and ordinarily you snarl and shove him away when he touches you anywhere you're more than muscle and bone, but just now it makes your nook twitch, and you flush.  His eyes widen slightly, but he makes no comment.  His other hand trails down your side, over your hip.  He watches you as his hand slowly spreads, curves around the underside of your thigh, and strokes down toward your knee.

 

"You're turning some kinda beautiful shade of red, best friend."

 

You scowl and go to attack his ear again, but he stops you with one hand against your chest.  "What—?" you begin, then press your lips together as he strokes back up your thigh and gently squeezes your ass.  His eyes on you are so intense you have to look away.  "Gamzee—!"

 

"Feel bad?" he asks, removing that hand.

 

"No," you say, then squirm as he cups your ass again.  His other hand is still firm against your chest and won't let you nestle against him no matter how hard you push.  It's a little agitating how easy it is for him to hold you at bay.  "No," you repeat.  "Just... don't stare at me like that."

 

"If I ain't got a view on your face, won't know if I'm all doin' it right.  Don't wanna be perpetrating shit you don't like."

 

"It's embarrassing!"

 

"Why?"

 

Your cheeks get hotter.  You haven't felt self-conscious about your blood color in front of Gamzee since the first time he saw it, but that doesn't mean you like the way it looks suffusing your skin.  More than your color, though, you just don't want Gamzee scrutinizing your face right now.  What if you look like a goon when you're aroused?  That strikes you as a distinct possibility.

 

"It just is!" you say.  He lets you push his arm to one side so you can mold yourself once more to his torso, and settles that hand awkwardly on your back.  You butt your head gently against the underside of his chin.  "You can keep touching me, though," you say.  "I mean... I liked what you were doing."

 

"All right," he says slowly.  He still has the one hand on your ass, just resting there, and you kind of want him to keep going from there, but instead, he lifts the other and smooths your hair back from your forehead, then down between your horns.  He strokes down your back, then starts again at the nape of your neck.  You hum softly and kiss his collarbone. 

 

His skin is cool against your lips.  You drag your mouth along the neckline of his shirt as he pets you, and pull aside the flap of cloth loosened by the two rips so that you can move lower.  His breath stutters, but he makes a soft, pleased noise when you kiss his chest.  His heartbeat taps against your lips and it's racing, even as his hand on you is slow and gentle.  It gives you this strange pang, half pale, half flushed.  Part of you wants to soothe him, to bring that pulse down, but the rest is moved that his heart is beating for you.

 

You dart your tongue out to taste that spot, where his heart beats.  The little sound he makes turns into a groan when you suck at the skin, trying to draw that pulse along your tongue.  "That's a good sound, right?" you ask, lips brushing his damp skin.

 

"Good feeling, brother," he rasps, and groans again as you resume.

 

His pulse speeds under your attentions, and you're almost giddy with it.  You run your fingers down the torn flap of his shirt.  "Gamzee...  You wanna take this off?"  Gamzee goes very still.  "Gamzee?"  You plant your hands among the cushions and try to push yourself up to look at him, but he wraps his arms around you, keeping you in place.  You struggle, but you can't get leverage.

 

" _Gamzee,_ " you say sharply.  Your cheek lands over his heart; you can hear it thudding away.  "Shit, are you okay?  I'm sorry.  That was too flushed.  I shouldn't have—"

 

"Shoosh," he murmurs, and pats your head.  "I'm just...  Uh...  I'm gettin' worked the motherfuck up, and...  Bulge is expostulatin' louder than my pan, you know?"

 

You can feel the evidence against your ass... and your thigh, for that matter.  You've been a little distracted, but all of a sudden it registers just how much bulge is pressing up against you through those thin clown pants.  You frown into his chest.  You must be feeling something else.  Maybe he's got a horn or a balloon animal or some idiotic thing in his pocket.  There's no way...

 

"Sure," you say.  "But don't hide from me.  Let me up, you chute whistle."

 

He snorts and loosens his arms, allowing you to rise to your elbows and glower at him.  "You wouldn't let me get my look on _your_ face," he says.

 

"Uh."  He has you there.  "Okay, okay," you grumble.  "You're right.  I...  I'm being a wiggler.  Sorry."

 

He plants a quick kiss on your nose.  Pale as fuck.  God damn, this is confusing. 

 

But with his next kiss he parts your lips and plunges his tongue deep into you.  He squeezes your ass as he explores your mouth, and you moan.  That's less confusing—everything below your belt is one hundred percent sure of the situation.  He kisses you till your arms threaten to give out, his fingers feathering along your jaw.  When you part, he puts one over your lips.  "Said I could motherfuckin' fight back, right, brother?"

 

You nod, and he kisses you again, loops an arm around your back, and rolls so that without even feeling the impact, you're suddenly lying in the pile, his weight a tantalizing pressure over your entire body.  Reflexively you arch up, try to shift him, but he's got you pinned, and the sheer immovability of him sends a shock through you that floods your nook with heat.

 

He rises onto one elbow, never releasing your mouth for a second, and his other hand slips up under your shirt.  His cool fingers make you jolt, and something in you lights up as he caresses your bare skin.  When he finds a grub leg scar, you're arching again, with nowhere to go.  He runs the side of a claw along the edge of the scar, teasing those sensitive nerves until you grab hold of his face and pull back to catch a breath.

 

Gamzee gives you this big, toothy grin that makes you melt, and you bite your lip to stop yourself saying anything stupid.  You'd want to knock him down a peg for looking so pleased with himself, if only the sentiment wasn't justified.  He brushes a knuckle down your horn and you chirrup. 

 

"Gamzee."

 

"You're blushin' somethin' fierce," he says.

 

"Don't look," you grumble.

 

He kisses your cheek, the juncture of jaw and throat.  "I love your color.  Bright and beautiful like the sun fixin' to burn up the horizon.  You're too vicious for the spectrum, brother."

 

"You..." you say.  "You..."  Before you can find words foul enough to cover your reaction, he's kissing you again, working your horn with one hand and rubbing your scar with the other, and your knees lift on either side of him of their own accord.  He leans into the space between and you squeak at a sudden rush of fluid through your nook.  "Gamzee," you gasp, afraid he'll feel it and be freaked out, even though it's his fault, dammit, him and his lips and his hands and the idiotic, romantic shit he says.

 

But all he says is, "Can we get you shed of this?"  And you raise your arms at his prompting before your pan quite processes that he means your shirt.  He grins when he tosses it aside, and to cover your embarrassment at his gaze, you reach out and tear his shirt straight along the rips.  He blinks in surprise, then smiles uneasily and looks aside as he moves to let you pull the remnants away.

 

"What is it?" you ask.  You catch his chin and turn him back to you.

 

His gaze still evades yours.  "I feel wrong," he says.  "Too big.  Too..."

 

You put one arm around his neck and smooth your other hand down his chest.  Lavender suffuses the skin there, up along his neck, until it disappears under his face paint.  You pat his stomach.  "I'm gonna make you eat six meals a day 'till the next dark season.  You're too skinny.  But you're not too big."  You narrow your eyes at him.  "I wouldn't let anyone else tower over me the way you're going to, but...  Because you're my moirail, I'm gonna let it slide."  You pull him back down over you.  It's not cold that makes you shiver, but the sensation of skin on skin.  "You're never gonna get too big for me to handle.  And...  I like the way you feel."

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Yeah."  You roll your body against him, feeling out the shape and the weight of him.  "I... really do."

 

He gives you a quick kiss, hands roving over your exposed skin.  "Nothin' but mutuality on this end."  He kisses your throat.  "How'd that up and go?" he murmurs, as if to himself, and licks a stripe along your jugular.  You breathe sharply and then gasp as he seals his lips against your skin and sucks.

 

You scrabble at his shoulders.  "Gamzee—!"  Why does that simple thing feel so good?

 

He moves down, his long, versatile tongue drawing a line down your chest.  He nips at your stomach with just the very tips of his fangs, and you chirp in a combination of arousal and distress.  You're so wet, all of a sudden.  You've never been this wet.  It feels thrilling and obscene.  You're actually going to pail your moirail.  You think you are.  You want to so badly it hurts—you just hope it isn't the wrong thing.

 

"Gamzee."  You tug at his shoulders and he lifts his head.  His greasepaint is smudged just enough to give you a glimpse of moist, black lips, parted as he breathes, a flash of his clever purple tongue behind them.  Your nook contracts.  "Gamzee," you say again.  "Fuck, I...  I want you.  Please tell me it's all right."  God, what are you doing?  _You're_ the one supposed to have an ounce of sense—but you ask anyway.

 

Gamzee's lids lower.  How is this rust-panned doofus suddenly the most gorgeous troll you've ever laid eyes on?  You've never felt arousal like that amethyst gaze sends through you.

 

He holds you with his eyes.  "I belong to you, Karkat."

 

A low, strangled moan is all you manage before clasping his face in both hands and kissing him with everything you have.  Then you're pawing at his pants, and he's fumbling with your belt, and somehow you both manage to shed your remaining clothes and tumble back down together.

 

He's lying between your legs, hanging over you like he's afraid he'll crush you.  You trill as his bulge wraps around yours, engulfing it, because Gamzee's is the length of your damn forearm.  You rock up against him, sliding through the slick, tight grasp of his bulge, the ridges along its underside sending lightning through you.

 

He suckles at your throat, purring like a broken computer fan.  You pet his back as your hips move of their own accord, your bulge demanding more of that pressure and friction.

 

"Good, brother?" he asks breathily.  You moan an affirmative.  Your fingers find his grub scars, and Gamzee's bulge pulses and squeezes around yours in response, making you gasp.  "Love the way your hands get to talkin'," he groans.

 

A smile tugs at your lips.  _Next time,_ you think, _I'll really show you what they can do._

 

But right now, your body is screaming at you that there's no time to play around.  Your bulge is blissful in the muscular coils of Gamzee's, but your nook is flushed, blazing with heat and the need to be filled.  "Gamzee," you say.

 

"Yeah, brother.  Yeah, come on."

 

"Nnh."  You lose the thread of your thought as he shifts his hips, the cooler lips of his nook brushing yours, making the muscles deeper inside you clench in greedy anticipation.  You tug at his shoulders—as much to get his attention as to focus yours.  "Gamzee," you say again.

 

He rubs his cheek against yours, kisses your earlobe.  "Right here."

 

"I want..."

 

"Lay it on me."

 

"I... fuck... I want you _inside_ me, dammit."  Your bulge is still moving as you speak, and he hisses, groans a little before answering.

 

"No," he says softly.  "Don't think that's all as safe as you maybe think."

 

You thumb one grub scar, and when he arches his back in pleasure, you capture his neck with your mouth, work both at once.  The soft sounds he makes in that resonant voice electrify you.  "Don't say that," you murmur.  "Gamzee, I want you.  I want to feel you."

 

He shivers.  "We can't," he says.  "It... uh...  Up and grew, best friend.  It's... I'm... too..."

 

"I noticed," you snort.  Like you could have missed the massive slitherbeast coiled around your bulge.  "It's okay."

 

His hair brushes your face as he shakes his head.  "I can't hurt you, palebrother.  I... I want to get all up at as close as I can, but I can't do that.  You can get in me, though."

 

You blush, and your bulge swells at the thought.  "God, you're awful at pillow talk.  The worst."

 

"Sorry."

 

You kiss him.  "I don't care.  But... Yes, I want that, too."

 

"Well, all right," he says, and pushes up onto his hands.

 

"I wanna do both," you say.  "I, uh... think we can manage, if you... go first."  Maybe you should retract your insult; this isn't easy to talk about gracefully.  How the hell does it always work out so smoothly in your novels and movies?

 

"I don't know at that," Gamzee says, but he gingerly begins untangling his bulge from yours.  You reach to help.  Your knuckles brush, and your fingertips skate along the slick, lubricated skin of his bulge.  Gamzee's hips buck.  You smile, and stroke him deliberately to the tip.  He closes his eyes and keens softly.  You find the end, with its narrow, diamond-shaped tip, which is trying to tuck itself into its own coils.  At your touch, it eagerly rubs up against your fingers, and, as you unwind it from around your bulge, curls around your hand.  It's not easy to keep hold of, secreting lubrication and leaking genetic material from the tip.  You feel the muscles shifting under the skin as you pull it free, and the full weight of it when you finally do.  Your own bulge lashes angrily at the loss.

 

It's _huge._   You ought to be intimidated.  You ought to be simpering about whether it'll fit, like in those highblood/lowblood pailvids you wiped from your hard drive when the two of you became moirails.  Instead, though, all you feel is the determination to have every last inch of it inside you, and you're not fully sure why until Gamzee touches your chin with one hand and makes you meet his eyes.

 

"Brother," he says, "it's my job to be at keepin' my diamond safe.  Know I ain't always done the best of motherfuckin' jobs in that...  Maybe creepin' up on the worst is what I'm doin', but..."  He looks down, and what with the flush you can see across his chest, you really wish you could wipe off the face paint to see what that skin was doing.  "Been thinkin' on you while you was away, best friend.  Before that, too.  The way I shouldn't oughta because a what quadrant we're up in, and...  It's just been flashin' through my pan somethin' harsh, but I...  This body is just...  It's..."  He breaks off with a grimace, begging you with his eyes to understand.  You think you do.

 

"Hey," you say.  You feel your blush again, and have to hurry yourself past the idea that he's been thinking of you this way for a while, now.  How?  What did he imagine?  What was he doing while he did?  "One thing first, alright?"  He nods.  "Highbloods fuck lowbloods, okay?  It happens.  It is absolutely a thing we are built for, and I am neither a wiggler, _nor_ made of fucking glass."

 

"I know, but—"  He hisses as you thumb the wet slit of his bulge.

 

"Furthermore, I—"  Your jaw kind of locks, and you swallow.  "Uh."  He's watching you very seriously, ears perked at attention.  You've always been so damn insistent on your own dignity.  You've failed miserably to maintain it, if you ask most of your friends, the sludge-gargling fuckwits, but you did try.  You tried to mask your weaknesses.  You tried to keep _some_ of your secrets safe.  You tried to be someone worthy of respect and a leadership role, and you still do, even though no one fucking takes you seriously.  No one, that is, except Gamzee, who is the only one who never demanded that of you—who never jumped on you when your mask slipped.  So fuck your dignity right in the protein chute.  You take a breath.  "I think I may literally explode from frustration if you don't pail me," you say, and you're kinda proud of maintaining eye contact while you do.

 

He gives you these huge, sad barkbeast eyes, and you figure, shit, as long as your dignity's a lost cause tonight, anyway—"Listen," you say.  "If it hurts, I'll stop you."  He looks suspicious.  "If it _really_ hurts, I'll punch you into next sweep."

 

He looks at you a moment longer, then nods gravely.  "You up and swear?"

 

You blink.  "Uh.  Yeah.  I do."

 

"O... okay."

 

"Okay?"

 

"I don't want my moirail havin' to blow the motherfuck up all over me."  He says it with an entirely straight face, which makes you burst out laughing.  You kiss him lightly between giggles, stroking his bewildered face—there is paint fucking _everywhere_ by now.

 

"Alright," you say, once you've got it under control, "so get to keeping me in one piece."

 

"Okay," he says.  He takes his straining bulge from you and flattens one palm on your chest, presses gently until you're on your back before him, your knees raised.  He shuffles forward between them, watching you solemnly, his hand trailing down from your chest to your abdomen.

 

You chew your lip, suddenly feeling very intimately on display.  You'd yell at him for staring at your nook like it was a word problem in his schoolfeed, but, uh, you kinda told him to, huh?

 

He slides that hand down, over your inner thigh, nudging you to spread your legs further, and you oblige.  The hand gripping his bulge moves down to just a couple inches under the blunt, diamond-shaped tip.  The rest of its muscular length shifts restlessly, trying to push forward.

 

Gamzee looks up.  "Gonna go at it slow-like," he says.  "Just, uh... a bit at a time.  So you can be all... opened up inside."

 

Your face flames.  "How the hell do you know that?"

 

"Mighta got my peepstalks on a vid or two, back home."

 

"Oh.  Right.  I mean, that sounds... smart."

 

He grins, which is a relief after all the seriousness.  "I don't much get to hearing that from you."

 

"Maybe if you're a pailing prodigy, I'll surprise you."

 

"Like the sound of that," he says, before his expression turns serious again.  "I'm gonna start, brother.  Wind up that arm."

 

You force a laugh.  "I'm ready."

 

He brings the tip of his bulge forward and lets just the point of the diamond touch the bottom of your nook.  You narrow your eyes, refusing to react too soon, but your heart is hammering.  The end of his bulge doesn't have much room to thrash; it drags against the lips of your nook as Gamzee pulls it upward, tracing the outer edge of you.  Your inner walls contract.  He brings the diamond tip down the other side, almost as if he's painting you with his lubrication and fluids.  You shudder at the thought and he pauses, looks up at you for confirmation.  You nod.

 

He keeps on with that paintbrush motion, the soft, wet skin of his bulge sliding through your folds.  It feels nice, sort of caressing you down there, slowly getting you wetter and slicker, and letting you adjust to the difference in temperature.  He circles slowly inward until he brushes something that makes you try to close your legs around him.  You whine before you can stop yourself and he looks up again.

 

"Do that again," you say.

 

"This?"

 

"Hm...  No, that's not—Oh, _shit_."

 

"That?"

 

"Yes, that."  You dig your fingers into a cushion.  "Oh, god, fuck...!"  You shift your knees up and down against his legs.  His thumb traces a soothing circle over your inner thigh.  You can feel—you can actually _feel_ —the blood filling the folds of your nook, swelling the flesh and making it that much more sensitive to Gamzee's slow, measured attentions.  Your hips try to twist away, and you have to concentrate to keep them in place.  "Gamzee," you say, reaching for his hand, and he replaces it on your hip, gently helping you stay put.  You lie back, relieved, then have to bite your lip as he finds a new pattern of nerves to tantalize.  "Oh, shit, oh shit, Gamzee, that's _good._ "

 

"You ain't as upset about that as you up and sound, now, are you?"

 

"Nnnno," you groan.  "Oh my god, don't stop."

 

"Wasn't thinkin' on it."

 

You think you can feel your heartbeat in your nook.  Scratch that; your pump biscuit has relocated between your legs.  You try to breathe deeply to keep your composure, but soon you're panting.  You've never felt anything like this.  You jerk your bulge about as often as any healthy young troll—less since getting your moirail as a hivemate, but still.  It's easy enough to palm your bulge and keep your claws clear, but no sane troll would put their taloned fingers inside their nook.  You've ground it against your palm or a pillow, but this is entirely different.  As Gamzee strokes you with the steady patience of a purrbeast washing its young, an electric tension radiates from the flushed lips of your nook, working its way deeper and deeper inside you.  At that thought, the tension triples, and your body tightens so quickly you arch your spine, throwing back your head, uttering an incoherent, panicked cry.

 

"You close, brother?"

 

"C-close to what?  Gamzee—!"  You chirp in alarm and reach out for him.  He threads his fingers through yours and rests your clasped hands on your leg.

 

"Close to coming, best friend."

 

"What?" you ask.  You'd almost forgotten the existence of your bulge, though it's still coiling against your stomach.  This feeling runs a completely different track through your body, and feels powerful enough to wrest total control of it from you.  "This isn't—  Not my bulge, it's—"

 

He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.  "Naw, it ain't comin' from there.  Feels real different, but ain't no thing to be frettin' over.  Let it come at you, palebrother.  Let it in."

 

You chirp again, and then you can't get it under control.  The sounds keep spilling from your disobedient lips.  You squeeze your eyes shut and clutch his hand as the tugging sensation in you builds and builds, pulling all your muscles taut, feeding an intense, freezing, burning ache in your nook.

 

"Fuck—!"  Your hips buck off the pile as a miniature explosion goes off between your legs.  You're too distracted to think of a bucket as an unfamiliar heat emanates from what feels like the end of that trail of nerves he lit up, and genetic material comes flowing down—a delicious feeling through your insides—and splashes out of your nook.  "Shit..." you say halfheartedly.  You're in no mood to think about the mess.  It's nowhere near the amount your bulge releases, anyhow.

 

You grip Gamzee's hand as you take deep draughts of air.  You give yourself a long moment for your muscles to stop jumping before you open your eyes.  "What're you looking so smug about?"  You try to growl it, but even you can hear how short it falls of intimidating.

 

"Ain't smug," says Gamzee, who's smiling with all his fangs showing in a way that makes your heart squeeze, pity running warm through your veins.  "Just motherfuckin' blissful to see you enjoy a thing that much."

 

You avert your eyes and chew your lip for a second before looking back.  "That was fucking intense.  How the hell did you learn that?"

 

"Did it just like I get up at on myself."

 

You furrow your brow, then your gaze travels down to the purple bulge now liberally spattered with red.  Christ, he's actually got enough bulge to do that to him _self_.  Must have had even before his growth spurt.

 

"Only fix your focus on your bulge, and you're missin' out on half the magic," Gamzee says.

 

"I guess so."

 

"So, uh..."  His eyelids lower as he glances down at you.  "You want me to get at that other half, or...  You still thinkin'...?"

 

The nerve endings all along that new path fire off in a muted echo.  "Yeah, I'm still thinkin'.  Shit, now I know there's a whole different kind of orgasm I've been missing out on, I wanna try it even more."

 

Gamzee gives a little sigh, but doesn't quite stop smiling.  "Whatever you say, brother.  May be kinda sensitive now, so... you still ready to get swingin' if I do wrong?"

 

You lift one loose fist to wave at him.

 

"All right, then..."  He untangles his left hand from yours and flattens it on your stomach.  He paints another couple stripes around the folds of your nook, which are fully engorged and feel fantastic when he touches them.  Then he drags the tip of his bulge slowly from just under the base of yours, down the center of your nook, to brush over the opening.  Your hips twitch, and you feel the tip of his bulge do the same.  He does it again, and this time the diamond jerks when it goes past, trying to make a break for your entrance.  You catch your breath and watch, enthralled, as Gamzee brings his hand forward, allowing the questing tip enough space to—

 

"Oh," you say softly.  It wriggles against you, then pushes in.  There's just a moment of gentle stretching at the widest point of the diamond before it passes inside.  You feel it straining forward, trying to get deeper, but it's not thrashing yet.

 

The two of you look at each other.  "Keep going," you murmur.

 

He nods and gives his bulge just a little more space, then a little more, and before his hand even reaches your body, his bulge has thickened enough that the full circumference of your opening is stretched.  Not tight—but you're very conscious of the entire ring.  He slides his hand back and lets one more inch ease into you.

 

"Mm!"  Your eyes meet again.  Your lips are pressed together hard; you force them open.  "It feels good," you say.  "More."

 

He catches his breath quietly.  His hand moves back and he feeds you a little more, a little more, and just when you're beginning to feel truly tight, he hisses.  You look up.  He has his eyes closed, his lips parted.  The muscles of your nook ripple in response and he groans, which makes you do it again.

 

The tip of his bulge curls under itself, stretching you further in, and you yelp and buck your hips, accidentally taking him in up to his grip on his bulge.  You moan in unison.  "Gamzee.  Gamzee—nnh—fuck, that's good, that's _good._ "  God, it's so strange, feeling him with parts of yourself you weren't even aware of.  Your nook is stretched taut around him and it feels amazing, just all this skin, all these nerves firing off incoherent telegrams to your thinkpan:  Loving the new addition—send  more, stat.

 

Gamzee's bulge undulates, caressing you with the ridges on its belly.  At the end, where its tip wants to quest deeper, it begins to thrash, snaking along first one wall, then another.  "Oh, shit.  Mmm, Gamzee..."

 

"No motherfuckin' argument here," he grates, voice rough.

 

"Keep going," you say.

 

"I..."  Gamzee takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.  His bulge ripples and you bite down on a moan.  "I think this is plenty enough," he says.  You chirrup as he pulls his bulge back, dragging the ridges slowly along your inner wall.  He pulls until only the tip rests inside you, then pushes it back in one smooth slide.

 

"Nnh!"  He's pulling again before you can speak, the next stroke and the next rocking in and out a little faster.  You trill, and he catches your hip to keep you from bucking too hard.  "Ah—Ahh—Gamzee, no—"

 

He stops.  "Does it hurt?"  His eyes are huge.

 

"No.  No, it feels incredible."  The length he's giving you is just a little shorter than your bulge, but already thicker than yours is at the base.  It fills you, and stretches you, and you're pretty sure you could manage another of those nookgasms just the way he's going, but he's not even halfway in.  He's panting above you.  The tendons either side of his neck stand out, and sweat runs down from his hairline.  He's _dying_ to be inside you, and when the hell did he learn all this restraint, all this self-control?

 

Every time he's ever touched you, is when.  Your nutjob highblood powerhouse has always handled you with care.  Even when he was out of his mind, even when he was broken and tired and couldn't always manage to keep his possessions intact, he touched you like a rare and infinitely breakable artifact—like something precious.  He was so careful that it bothered you, sometimes, and right now it makes you want to scream, or cry, or _something_ , because damn it, _you're_ supposed to be the strong one.  He shouldn't have to be limiting him _self_ —that's what _you're_ for.  And yet...  The fact that Gamzee loves you so much he essentially pacifies himself to deal with you gives you a feeling so warm you might _need_ mutant blood to experience it.  It's not new information; this is just a new way you're coming face to face with it.

 

"Damn it, Gamzee.  Don't deny yourself with me.  With me— _just_ with me—you can be selfish.  You can ask for what you need.  You can say what you want.  Please don't be strong for me."  You take a breath.  "I wanna be the one who gives you what you need...  Not the one you have to hold back for.  Trust _me_ to stop you.  Trust me."

 

"I do, brother.  I do."

 

"I don't wanna make you do this if you don't want to, Gamzee."  You feel suddenly adrift and unsure—not to mention ridiculous, choosing _now_ to doubt your decision.  "But I think you're only holding back for me, and I don't want that."  He looks down into your eyes and takes a shuddery breath.  He doesn't answer.  "I'm yours, too, Gamzee," you say.  "As your moirail, as your matesprit, as whatever you need.  I want to be all of that.  So... let me have you, too.  Let me feel all of you."

 

He makes a small, muffled noise not unlike a whimper.  Then he shifts, and his bulge slides further into you, making you gasp.

 

"Yes," you say, before he can question you.  "Good.  Keep coming."

 

The next inch stretches you wide, but you're so unbelievably wet that even though the next movement makes the muscles of your entrance burn, there's really no resistance.  You catch yourself holding your breath as he feeds you another inch and another, and force yourself to breathe.  A panicky voice at the back of your pan tells you there isn't room to breathe—there's too much bulge in you to risk inflating your lungs.  You open your mouth to reassure your moirail and all that escapes you is a long, high trill like you never thought you'd hear outside a vid.  Your internal muscles spasm around the column that's pressing its way into you, forcing you wide, and it feels so fucking good you want to cry.  You're honestly afraid to move lest something rupture, but you'll scream if he stops again—you want the rest if it kills you.

 

Evidently Gamzee's feeling it, too, because his eyes are almost closed, his jaw is clenched, but there's a low, continuous groan trailing from his lips, almost a whine.  Cords stand out along his arms as he slowly lets you have more, and then a little more.  You whimper and open your arms wide.  "Gamzee," you say, "stop being so far away."

 

He looks down at you.  No one's ever looked at you like that.  You've never seen anyone look that way at anyone or anything, even in the movies.  It's this look of absolute vulnerability, of wanting that surpasses logic and self-preservation.  You own him so completely in this moment that the pity you feel could topple galaxies.  There is nothing you wouldn't do for the troll who wants you this badly.

 

"Karkat," he says, his voice ragged.  " _Karkat._ "  He falls over you, wrapping his arms around you.  Unchecked, the last few inches of his bulge plunge into you and you can only gasp, momentarily speechless and breathless at that final girth.  You close your arms around his back, your knees around his hips, and just cling to him.  Gamzee is kissing and nuzzling at your neck, whispering your name over and over like an incantation—the name he never uses unless he needs you.  He needs you.  He is all the way inside you and still desperate, still trying to get closer.  Yes.  Yes.  Oh god, oh god, _yes._

 

You force yourself again to breathe.  He's not moving his hips—either consciously or unconsciously aware you need to adjust—but his bulge is writhing and thrashing against your walls, making you quiver.  You try to speak but can't do anything for a good minute but trill and chirp.  You rub your cheek against his instead—the vice grip you've got on him is probably enough to tell him to keep still for now, but you want to reassure him, tell him how good you feel, let him know how much you pity him.

 

When you finally catch your breath, you murmur his name.  His ear is right there, so you nip the lobe to get his attention.  He shivers—outside and in.  It feels incredible.  "Gamzee," you say again, and he lifts his head just enough to look at you.  "I fucking told you you'd never be too big for me."

 

He whimpers and kisses you.  You hang on tight and he kisses you until your hips twitch and your nook tightens, and even though that burns, you're suddenly desperate for more.  You're pretty well pinned under him, and staked better than a rainbow drinker at a slayer's convention, but your hips still try to roll.  Gamzee's lips part from yours with a pop.  He pants against your face, his voice raw.  "Karkat," he rasps, and you're glad for the first time that he rarely calls you by name, because you never thought that someone just uttering it could feel so intimate.  "Karkat, are you..."

 

"I'm good," you say.  Your voice sounds almost as broken as his.  You tilt your head to kiss his chin.  "I'm good.  You, uh...  You wanna move?"

 

"Can I?"

 

"Just start small."

 

Your muscles ease just slightly when he pulls out.  It's such a slow, subtle movement that you feel a giggle start in your chest and have to fight it down.  He just sort of bumps you with his hips; no force at all.  Instead of laughing, you pull him back down and press your face against his chest.

 

He pulls out a little further, and rocks back in.  Slow, slow.  You give a soft moan of encouragement.  You're too full to rush him, and the pace he's chosen is probably just right.  He repeats that modest movement several times, rocking slowly back and forth.  Although it's only a couple inches, the whole length of him inside you moves, ridges caressing the walls of your nook deep inside, pressures shifting.

 

Genetic material runs down your legs each time he pushes in.  The sound alone is thrillingly explicit.  The liquid movement around his bulge, too, tickles your nerves.  Your muscles flutter as if trying to catch it, only succeeding in squeezing Gamzee harder.  You can't see, but you imagine your fluids running, combined, down your thighs, a rich red-violet.  You chirp and your hips buck up into Gamzee.  "More," you say plaintively.  "Give me some more, Gamzee."

 

Little by little, he opens you up.  You never knew it was possible to be so tantalized, to want so much, because every shift feels good, every new stage has you trilling and digging your fingers into his back, and still there's always something more you crave.

 

Finally, he's pulling as far out of you as he can without releasing his grip on you, rising partway onto his knees before sinking back in.  You twine your arms tight around his neck.  "So good, Gamzee.  Go faster.  You can go faster."

 

He obeys, but just barely.  Then a fraction quicker.  "Don't let me hurt you, Karkat."

 

"Trust me."

 

And he does, and it's beautiful, feeling his fear unfurl as he hands responsibility over to you; feeling his desire take over the rhythm.

 

"Yes, yes...  That's it, Gamzee, that's good."

 

You'd like to be more active, to meet him halfway, but it's the best you can do just to cling to him and be swept along.  You have the reins, and you're paying close attention to what your body tells you—you'd abandon all that if it were only for your sake, but Gamzee needs you unhurt by his passion, so you'll guard your wellbeing as if it were his.

 

"That—that's it," you say, stroking his hair.  "Just like that.  Don't go any faster...  Just keep on...  Ohh..."  You bury your face in his chest.  "Oh, oh, oh...  Gamzee, I think...  I'm gonna...  Oh god, it's coming again..."

 

"Let it come, Karkat," he rasps above your head.

 

Your body bows up against his.  The pulse starts just behind the base of your bulge and runs back along the roof of your nook.  "Gamzee!" you cry, and then again, "Gamzee—!"  Shit, you hope you haven't broken something, because it's not stopping.  Those intense pulses stutter through you, electrifying your spine, almost every time he moves.

 

"You all right?" Gamzee pants.

 

"Yes.  _Yes._   Oh, _god._   Oh, Gamzee, _shit_ , shit, Gamzee, I—I..."

 

"Say it, palebrother.  Whatever you need."

 

"I—"  You swallow hard.  "I need a bucket."  Gamzee comes to a halt and you nearly sob.  "No, don't stop!"

 

"But, uh—I don't have a pail, brother."

 

"I must have one somewhere," you groan as he starts moving again.  "Fuck, where—"

 

Gamzee leans over you and shields both your heads with his arms as half the inventory of your Sylladex rains down around you.

 

"Whoa, shit.  You okay?"

 

Gamzee grins and rocks his hips, setting off another orgasm.  "No harm all done," he says.  He leans hard into you, bulge thrashing, as he reaches for something that landed behind you.  You chirp and shiver.  He leans back with a bucket in hand.  "How you wanna do this?"

 

"Ohh, god... Um..."  You try to wrestle your pan into functioning order.  "Help me up."

 

Gamzee sets down the bucket and wraps you in his arms, then rocks back onto his heels, taking you with him.

 

"Ooh," you say, as his bulge resettles inside you, your weight bringing it deeper in.  You want to tell him to just keep pailing you like this, but no, your bulge is thrashing fitfully between you, and you know you're about to make a prodigious mess of the block.  "Gotta... turn around..."  You lift one leg, then the opposite arm, half-turn, realize you've left your other leg behind...  Physical coordination wants none of you.

 

Gamzee grips you under the arms.  "I got this," he says, and lifts you off his lap, straight into the air.  "Lift your walkstalks."  You do, and he turns you around and sets you on your knees.

 

"Wha—" you start to say, then gasp as his bulge twists itself right-way-round, corkscrewing through you, ridges drawing spirals on your walls.  You sway on your knees and shove your fist into your mouth, bite down on your knuckles as Gamzee's bulge finishes twisting and he rises to his knees behind you, burying it fully in your nook.  "Oh, shit."  You throw out your arms for balance, but he pulls you securely back against him.  You sigh in relief and reach back to anchor yourself against his left thigh.  You reach for the bucket with your other hand, but he preempts you again with his longer reach, and puts the handle between your fingers.  You get it settled in front of you.

 

Gamzee kisses your neck, then your cheek.  You turn, seeking his lips, and he kisses you, carefully and slowly, while his hips keep rocking, working his bulge into you, keeping your whole body a twitching, shuddering mess entirely out of your control.  You whimper against his lips.  "Gamzee," you murmur when he lets you breathe, "I... I..."

 

He catches your right hand and puts it behind his neck.  His left arm is locked around your middle, hand brushing idly at your grub scar.  His other hand slides over your stomach to take hold of your bulge.  "I got you, my flushed diamond.  Let me up and tend to you."

 

"Ohhh, yes.  Okay.  Yes."  You raise your chin for another kiss, which he gives you as he strokes down your bulge.  Your hips try to buck, but he holds you in check, moving into you as his hand glides over the slick surface of your bulge.

 

You have to break the kiss to pant for air.  The friction inside and out has you burning, aching, as your muscles tense and spasm.  Gamzee groans in your ear.  "Oh, best friend," he croons, "I can feel it flowing through you.  Feel that wave cresting all up in you, fixin' to rush on out."  He licks your neck, nibbles lightly on your shoulder. 

 

You trill, too overcome to do anything but hold on and let him pull you ever tighter.  Your legs tremble, but he holds you firm.  You fling your head back against his shoulder as the tightness in your abdomen and your nook spreads along your bulge.  "Oh, fuck... Fuck me.  Gamzee, I'm gonna come.  Oh, Gamzee, Gamzee, Gamzee—!"

 

"Come for me, brother.  Show me that crimson, Karkat."

 

You arch with a strangled yell.  The wave of tension within you reaches your shame globes and heat like molten lava overflows from them.  A flood of searing genetic material rushes up through your bulge and erupts from the tip with such force it nearly knocks the bucket over when it hits.  Gamzee keeps stroking you as the fire-red material pumps through you, and you cry out brokenly over and over.

 

When he's coaxed the last drop from you, Gamzee gently releases your bulge and wraps that arm around you, too.  He kisses the side of your head, your neck, your cheek, as you sob for breath.  "Shoosh, Karkat," he soothes.  "Shoosh, brother."

 

It seems like a long time before you can string a coherent thought together, let alone speak.

 

"Oh, shit," you finally manage.  "Gamzee, I'm—I'm sorry, I—"

 

"What're you even apologizin' at?"

 

"You—You still—and I'm—"

 

"Don't gotta worry about that, brother."

 

"I want you to come, Gamzee.  Jesus Christ, it can't just be me."

 

"I, uh...  If you don't mind any, I'd like to keep going like I am.  But I'm not tryin' to do that if it's hurtin'."

 

"Oh, fuck, by all means."  You do your best to squeeze him with hands that have gone weak.  Your legs are water; it's only his grip on you that has you upright.  "I don't mind at all—it still feels amazing.  But I'm worse than useless right now—you're gonna have to prop me up like a damn... thing... that falls down a lot...  Nngh, Gamzee, all my blood's in my crotch—if you can deal with me in this condition, do whatever you need to."

 

His chuckle makes you smile, and it's strange, but the expression doesn't want to leave your face.  Every muscle in your body has shut down for business—just absolutely given up.  A warm, blissful flush moves slowly out from your shame globes, spreading throughout your body.  If someone came to cull you right now, you couldn't lift a claw to stop them, and you'd probably go out with this dazed, pan-addled look on your mug.  You can't even summon any shame.  You just lie against your moirail... and matesprit... like a straw-filled practice dummy, and purr as his movements light your slack frame with aftershocks.

 

In the wake of all those orgasms, without the desperation of reaching for them, you can feel Gamzee far more clearly than before.  You can feel the thick muscles of his bulge straining, shifting around each other; you can feel his pulse beating in your nook, far faster and more frantic than yours.

 

"Oh, brother," he sighs, "how'd you get to feelin' so good?"

 

You loll your head back, trying to see him, but you can only see one horn and a shock of riotous curls.  You stroke his thigh.  "What do I feel like?"

 

"Like hive and home.  You feel like happiness, Karkat."

 

You laugh, then laugh again at yourself for not hitting him.  "You... ridiculous... goof."

 

He chuckles, though the sound is strained.  "You done up and asked."

 

"It was a goofy question," you admit.

 

"Don't let me rub off on you now."

 

You snort.  "Think... it's a little late... for that!"  You lose it and start giggling in earnest.  His laughter vibrates through you.  Like home.  Like home.

 

"Karkat."  Gamzee's hips begin to snap against you harder.  Nothing in the world could hurt you now—your body is floating in warm, lax perfection.

 

"Yeah?"

 

" _Karkat._ "

 

"Mm, yes."

 

"Karkat, I'm coming.  I'm gonna come, palebrother."

 

"Do it, Gamzee.  Do it for me."  You gather the last of your energy and tighten the muscles of your nook, your abdomen.  Gamzee makes a short, shocked sound, and you feel his bulge swell at the base, just inside your nook.  You chirp in surprise as the added girth stretches you.  Gamzee starts to pull back, but you tug at him and give another squeeze with your nook.  "Let me have it."

 

Gamzee gasps and moans.  He clings to you and presses his face into your hair.  You feel the material travel up the entire length of his bulge, stretching you both.  He's shuddering, his body taut behind you, trilling as you milk him with your nook.  His genetic material bursts from him deep inside you, and you feel yourself balloon around his bulge, your walls stretching out somewhere just shy of your organ cage, the coolness of his material sharp and tantalizing even to your overstimulated senses.

 

Gamzee makes a soft, broken noise into your hair, and you pap the bits of him you can reach, wishing you could get your arms around him.  The sensation of distension in a place you're not even used to being aware exists doesn't hurt, but it's alien enough that it would panic you if you weren't relaxed beyond all possibility of stress right now.  You just hang, suspended in Gamzee's arms, as he babbles your name surrounded by incoherent praise and endearment.  The bubble of material sits like an egg inside you, cool, but warming around the edges.

 

Something unfurls and opens much further down, near the base of your abdomen, and begins to draw the material.  The coolness flows down from the hard bubble, around Gamzee's bulge, and begins to swell that area behind your abdominals.  You look down and can see it rise and round under the muscle.  That must be your material sac—ha, biology schoolfeed!—because it's a pleasant sensation, like a combination of stretching your legs after sitting too long and drinking when you're parched.

 

When Gamzee recovers himself and begins gingerly to pull out, there's still plenty of material to run in purple rivulets down your legs.  You reach and Gamzee retrieves the bucket, gets it situated between your legs.  You watch, bemused, as his deep blue-purple splashes into your red, making first a stripe of violet here, a cloud of mauve there.  His bulge comes free with a spray of tiny droplets that start dark purple and fade to violet at the edges.

 

You're grateful Gamzee still has hold of you, even though he feels shaky as all hell, because otherwise you'd fall in your own slurry.

 

Gamzee leans over your shoulder.  "That's some kinda bump, best friend."

 

You take his hand from your hip and lay it over your abdomen.  "That's you," you say.

 

"Does it hurt?" he asks—hesitant, but with far less fear than before.  His hand rests only lightly over your skin, pleasantly cool.

 

"No," you say.  He runs his thumb gently back and forth over the swollen skin.  "Nh."

 

"Still okay?"

 

"Mm-hm.  Not sure how I'm supposed to get it out, though."

 

"Maybe I can just up and give you a little massage."  He rolls his hand from palm to fingers.  The pressure increases against the one muscle in you, apparently, still capable of tension.

 

"Mmm...  Try again." 

 

He rolls it again.  The fluid shifts and your sac tightens on the other end.  You can distinctly feel the sphincter keeping it in.  You put your hand over Gamzee's and slowly, steadily press in.  The pressure increases till it's on the point of pain, and then the muscle releases, and you feel that wonderful liquid rush through your nook.

 

Purple material pours out of you into the bucket, deepening the hue of your combined slurry.  You watch the colors swirl and mix and settle on a sunset violet.

 

"So that's us, huh, brother?"

 

"Yeah...  Yeah."  You chuckle, kind of awed.  For the longest time, you never expected to see what color you'd make with anyone.  You certainly never expected to fill a pail with Gamzee.  You laugh.

 

"What's got you all giddy?"

 

"I'm starting to get sentimental about a bucket of come," you say.  "Fuck, I'm gonna fall over.  Where can we lie down?"  You've got the bucket between your legs, and you've made a sticky mess of a good portion of the pile.  Flopping down on the floor behind you sounds fine right about now.

 

"I got you," Gamzee says.  He drags the pail to one side and scoops you up in one arm like a pupa.

 

"What—?" you start, as he rises unsteadily to his feet.  "Where are we going?"

 

"Gotta get our ablutions on."  You groan.  "Won't take but a minute, brother.  You're gonna be salty on me in the evening if you wake up all stuck together."

 

"Ugh, fine."  You put your arms around his neck and go along for the ride.  You feel about a sweep old, but still take indulgent pleasure in hanging off him like a cocoon while he gets the water running in the ablutionblock.

 

He flops down on the load gaper to wait for the trap to fill and settles you snugly in his arms.  You're cool at first, with both of you naked, but the block soon fills with steam, and you don't realize you've drifted off until Gamzee is lowering you into the water.

 

You sink in to your neck with a groan.  The heat seeps through your already lax muscles.  You wave a hand weakly at Gamzee.  "If you don't get in here with me, I'm gonna drown."

 

"Can't be havin' that, now."

 

You look up—pretty far up, from the trap—at him as he steps over the rim.  His long, lean body folds gracefully to sit on the edge.  Graceful isn't a word you'd normally associate with your clown, but just sometimes he has these moments, and right now, nude and almost frail with his new height, as he lowers his long legs into the water, he looks... beautiful.  He arches to slide himself into the trap and you can't help but reach out, have to run your hands over his chest, his stomach.  You pass it off like you're wiping him down, but you think he knows.  You leave off and drape yourself against him.  "Wash me."  He chuckles.  "What?" you demand petulantly.  "I was working for the glory of the empire, and I had a long journey home, and then I pailed the best-endowed troll in Alternian history.  I'm allowed to be tired, and it's your job as my moirail to return me to my original condition and not let me drown in the trap, so get to it."

 

"You motherfuckin' got it, best friend."

 

You're usually so twisted up about shepherding _him_ that you don't let him take care of you, even though he _would_.  The truth is, you love his pale attentions, and you're too tired, too loose, too high on crazy sex endorphins to stand on your dignity and act like you don't.  You just sit there like a wet carbohydrate strip and let him prop you up, manipulate your limbs, and scrub you clean. 

 

You're a blissful, semi-overheated lump by the time he finishes.  You make a few halfhearted swipes at him as he cleans himself, but you're more copping a feel than you are helping.  It takes most of your energy just to hang on to the side of the trap and stay upright.

 

You're sorry when the water begins to drain, but he has to hold you while you rinse off under the shower, which is nice.  He hoists you onto the rim of the trap once you're done, then climbs out.  You purr as he towels you dry and wraps you in a fresh, fluffy towel.  Once he's dry, too, he swings you back up into his arms.  This time, you don't grumble.

 

"You wanna get vertical in your recuperacoon?" Gamzee asks, as you step out into the cooler air of his respiteblock.  "You had a long night."

 

You nuzzle against his chest.  "It hasn't been filtered in weeks.  Let's just make a pile in the rumpusblock.  We can clean your block tomorrow."

 

You mostly watch, curled up in your towel on a chair, as Gamzee pulls the cushions off the couch and throws on a heap of snuggleplanes.  When the pile looks inviting enough, you heave yourself up, grab Gamzee around the waist, and pull him down into it.  The two of you twist snuggleplanes around you until you have a cozy nest.  You pull him close and tuck your head under his chin.  "I'm pale for you," you say, still purring quietly.

 

He runs his fingers into your hair.  "Pale for you, too, brother."

 

"And I'm flushed for you."

 

"Yeah.  Guess that's all kinds of a thing, now, huh?  We're doin' it human style."

 

You yawn.  "It is absolutely a thing we are doing."  You give him a squeeze.  "Do you feel any better, or did I do this all wrong?"

 

Gamzee's silent until you start to worry, then he nods against your head.  "You got me feelin' like everything might be all right."

 

" _Might_ be?" you demand jokingly.

 

You feel another nod.  "I was scared, Karkat."  You close your eyes and press your face into his neck.  After a moment, he continues.  "But I know you got me.  Feel like you got this, palebrother.  I can get at my calm flows, now."

 

"Fuckin' right I've got this," you growl.  It lacks authority when you're purring, but you don't give a shit.  "Now get to sleep, 'cause you've still got my breakfast to make in the evening, and then I'm gonna force-feed you for three straight nights."

 

"What the motherfuck for?"

 

"Because you're a sack of overgrown bones on the brink of starvation, you granite-panned cliff-rodent."  You yawn again.  "Now don't make me repeat myself."

 

"Wouldn't get my think near it.  Good morning, brother."

 

You grunt and settle yourself, locking him in a possessive vice grip.  "Good morning."

 

* * *

 

You float up to consciousness through a warm, gray haze, in no particular hurry.  Your limbs are heavy in an ocean of soft snuggle planes.  You burrow your way back down into the pile—and freeze.  Something's wrong.  Holy _fuck_ , you're _dying._   What the _hell_ is wrong with your body?

 

Your eyes open.  The rumpusblock is dark, a faint light coming from the stairwell, the stripped couch in front of you.  "Ohhhh, _fuck_ ," you groan aloud.  "Me and my idiot hormones..."  You have never been this sore.  Never.  Not the first time you decided to become a Threshecutioner and stayed up all day with GrubTube training videos after sweeps of near total inactivity.  Not after the grueling stretch of wakefulness and combat that was Sgrub.  But it's a similar feeling, running from your nook through half your thorax.  Your inner thighs aren't thrilled with you, either, but it's the general nook-abdomen area registering complaints that after giving it no form of prior conditioning for nearly eleven sweeps, you rashly decided to cram most of a highblood up there.

 

"The fuck were you thinking, Vantas?" you groan, going lax in the pile.

 

 _That I really, really wanted to,_ you answer yourself, and grin.  You're not sure you can even walk, but you feel obnoxiously self-satisfied just the same.  That's right.  Distressed moirail: Sorted.  Sexual frustration and virginity: Sorted.  Contribution to the propagation of the species: ...Huh.  You should go clean that up.

 

You push yourself out of the pile, and promptly fall over.  "Ass-blistering fucknuggets!"

 

As you struggle to free yourself from the tangle of snuggleplanes, there's a thundering from the stairs.  When you get to your knees, Gamzee is hovering above you, dressed but unpainted, looking worried.  "Heard you fall," he says.

 

You glare up at him to mask your embarrassment.  "Where are my clothes?" you snap.

 

He blinks, then says, "Comin' right up," and stampedes back down the stairs.

 

By the time he returns, you're sitting on a chair, wrapped in a snuggleplane and all the dignity you can muster.  You hold your hands out for the clothes, which Gamzee takes as his cue to dress you.  You feel stupid, but it's achingly pale, so you don't fight it.  It's not fun moving your hips when he hunkers down to pull up your boxers and jeans, though.  You manage to do no more than wince, because you're _not_ going to let Gamzee think he's damaged you and have him slide straight back into a freak-out.  He doesn't miss the expression.

 

"You sore?" he asks solicitously.

 

"Yeah, a little," you say.  You go to button your jeans, but he brushes your hands away to do it himself.

 

"Me, too," he says.

 

"Really?"

 

"Guess I'm not all trained up like a troll oughta be."  He pats his abdomen, then snickers.  "My tail's kinda feelin' it, too."

 

"Huh," you say.

 

"You okay, though?"  He looks earnestly into your eyes.

 

"I'm fine.  I mean, I feel like I ran the Scream Canyon Marathon with my nook—"  You hold up a finger to silence his next question.  "But that just means I need to train it."

 

Gamzee's cheeks turn lavender.  "How you gonna train _that?_ "

 

"I'll need a partner, obviously."

 

He blushes more deeply.  "Maybe you should up and give yours a day of ease and think at takin' a crack at mine, first, brother."

 

It's your turn to blush, then grimace as picturing his suggestion makes all those sore muscles flex.  Who knew arousal could hurt so much?  Or how little self-preservation instinct your reproductive system had?  "Yeah," you say, as evenly as you can, "that sounds smart."

 

He opens his eyes wide.  "That's twice in two nights."

 

"I must be lowering my bar."  You hold your arms out like a pupa asking to be picked up, and give him your haughtiest, coolest-blooded look.  "Now take me downstairs and feed me."

 

"Your motherfuckin' wish is my command."  He hoists you into his arms and you put yours around his neck.  You swear you're going to stop doing this... just as soon as it's practical.

 

You look over his shoulder as he trots down the stairs.  "Gamzee, what are you wearing?"

 

"Did like you said and got at the alchemiter," he says.  "Did it up like a charm."

 

"More like using a steamroller to hammer in a nail," you mutter.  His shirt must be twice as wide as he is, and the sleeves flap like air-vermin wings.  His pants look like he belted on a circus tent.  Thank fuck he's barefoot, or you'd both be bound for a much faster trip down the stairs than intended.

 

"Yeah," he says proudly.  "Motherfuckin' nailed it."

 

You snort.  "Uh-huh."  You'll see what you can do later.  You may have to resort to needle and thread.  That's a good activity to do with your lower half immobile, anyway.  "Damn, something smells delicious."

 

"You said you had a hunger on for a soufflé."

 

You take a deep whiff and your stomach rumbles appreciatively.  "I think I also said if it wasn't the best I'd ever tasted, there'd be hell to pay."

 

"Whipped you up two, just all in case."

 

You nod and give an approving hum.  "Hope you made at least six for yourself.  I wasn't kidding about force-feeding  you."

 

"I ain't that hungry," Gamzee says.

 

You growl.  "You'd better _get_ hungry."

 

"But best frieeeend," Gamzee whines.

 

You poke him with one horn and chortle evilly.

 

Your name is Karkat Vantas.  You've just pailed your moirail so hard you can't walk and made an unholy mess of both of your quadrants, but you know what?  You've got this.  You've motherfucking got this.


End file.
